You Could be Happy
by samirawrr-19
Summary: Break ups can be hard. Arthur learns that the hard way after he betrays Francis. / FRUK AU, mentions of USUK. M for language. Short Story
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Hetalia or _"You Could be Happy"_ by the Snow Patrol.**

_You Could be Happy, Part I_

"_You could be happy and I won't know, but you weren't happy the day I watched you go. And all the things that I wished I had not said are played in loops till it's madness in my head." _

_Smash._

The fine china collided with the wall, and shattered into pieces, decorating the dark hardwood floor underneath their shoes. Not that they took too much notice. The Brit was fuming, and the Frenchman was biting back all of the harsh words that were about to spill over his lips. Arguments weren't an uncommon thing in their household, but something was different about this one, definitely not their usual lover's spat.

"It's has to stop!" Arthur screamed, clenching his hands into fists, "All you bloody do is gamble, and party, and drink! Not to mention the cigarettes," he added harshly, knowing that Francis had been fighting a losing battle when it came to quitting the nasty habit. It just wasn't happening for him, and he knew there was nothing he could do. His body had become completely accustomed to the nicotine and other chemicals in the smokes. "How much money have you lost us this week, Francis? _Hm?_" The Brit asked, nearly fuming.

Francis gritted his teeth, glaring down at the man he had adored hotly. "I barely lost anything! Besides, it was _my own_ money," he spat, his French accent prominent in every word he spoke. "All you do is nag me, Arthur. It's not helping anything!" Francis complained, resting his hands on his slender hips, "I've tried to stop smoking, and drinking, and gambling. I never went out for a long time, _oui?_ I went out _once _and you're on my back like I've committed a 'orrible crime!"

"Well maybe if you weren't such a _flirt _I could trust you more! I know _damn well _what happens when you go out with Gilbert and Antonio, Francis. I'm no idiot!" Arthur yelled, taking a step towards the Frenchman, shards of glass crunching under his dark leather shoes. "All the girls that are there, all the men too. I know how it works. You hook up with them and then come stumbling in at two in the morning, reeking of cigarettes, alcohol and cheap perfumes," Arthur said. Francis furrowed a brow in rage. How could Arthur even think like that? No, this wasn't sitting well with him, at all.

"Oh Arthur, you act like you're so innocent. Give me a break, _mon cher_. I forgave you when you went behind my back with Alfred, _non?_ You said it was a mistake, and you didn't mean to. How do you '_not mean_' to fuck someone? I would surprise me if it wasn't the first... _non_, the last time." Francis questioned him. He knew that Arthur had indeed been intoxicated at the time, and Francis was out of the town, but he was a firm believer that "_I was drunk_," was not a valid excuse for cheating on your partner.

Arthur frowned, glare softening. He, naturally, had felt horrible for that incident for the longest time, and just recently had he been feeling better, and accepting that Francis had forgiven him for that. He had never gone out with the intent to cheat on his lover. Francis realized then he had made a horrible mistake bringing that up. He reached out to him, mouth open as if he was going to speak, but nothing came out for a moment.

"Arthur... I..." Francis started, struggling to find the right words to apologize with. If he did this properly, he was sure he could put an end to this argument right now. He was utterly shocked when the shorter Brit's hand shot out and slapped his straight across the face. Francis turned his head back towards him, staring at him blankly. Never before in their relationship had one struck another. No, it wasn't that kind of relationship _at all._

It was Arthur's time to be shocked at his own actions. He took a few steps closer and reached both of his hands up, cradling Francis' face in his hands carefully, "Oh god, Francis I'm so sorry," he whispered, staring up at the French man through clouded green eyes. "I-I was just so angry," Arthur continued, frowning. Francis took a step back from Arthur, before walking around him and going down the hall of their single storey home to where their bedroom was. He produced a suitcase from the closet and robotically started putting his clothes into it, not caring to fold them.

Arthur recovered from his initial shock and followed him down to their bedroom, staring at him from the door way until the realization of what was happening hit him. "Francis, don't do this," he said quietly, walking into the room. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"You did mean to," he said, a humorous tone of his voice, "I wasn't thinking, I didn't mean to, I was just stressed... That's all I ever hear from you!" He exclaimed, turning around quickly and locking Arthur against their dresser. He stared at him for a long while, before he moved back and shut the suitcase, vowing to return at a later date and collect the rest of his belongings. "I need some space," he said finally, picking up the tan coloured container and walking out of the room, leaving a stunned Arthur once again. He grabbed his car keys, and made sure the house key was still there before going towards the door.

"Francis, please," Arthur said quietly, standing with him at the door. Francis frowned down at him, before shaking his head and walking out into the crisp fall air. He unlocked the car, and threw his suitcase in the back carelessly, before getting in the front and promptly pulling out of the driveway. As he sped away from the house, Arthur bit back his tears. He wasn't going to cry. He _wasn't _going to cry.

He looked around the street, and locked eyes with their neighbour, a nice Japanese fellow who cared too much for his own good. Kiku, Arthur thought his name was. The oriental man opened up his front room window and leaned out it slightly so Arthur could hear the words that came tumbling out of his mouth in a heavily accented voice, "Is everything okay, Arthur-san? I heard a lot of smashing glass!" He called across the short distance of their houses. Arthur flinched slightly, remembering how his temper had snapped, and the nearest thing had been the china cabinet where he kept his tea cups and dishes.

"It's fine... Just an argument. No worries, Kiku," he called, offering him a weak, forced smile. The man nodded, and muttered something to himself before closing his window and drawing the curtains back shut. Arthur sighed and hung his head, walking back into the house in defeat. He shut the door, and was about to lock it, but on second thought left it open. Just in case Francis happened to come back. It didn't seem likely anymore, though.

He looked at their destroyed living room and grabbed a broom, staring to sweep up the glass shards into a pile. His thoughts ran crazy around his head, and no matter what he tried he couldn't silence them. He felt hot tears slip down over his eyes and he cursed himself for not being able to hold them back. Arthur leaned against the broom heavily. How had he just let him go like that?


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own Hetalia or ****_"You Could be Happy" _****by the Snow Patrol**

_You Could be Happy, Part II_

"_Is it too late to remind you how we were? But not our last days of silence, screaming, blur. Most of what I remember makes me sure I should have stopped you from walking out the door "_

Arthur Kirkland sat numbly on their bed. He had the covers drawn up around his shoulders, the curtains closed and the lights out. He sat in complete darkness, willing his exhaustion to take over, and his thoughts quiet. It had to be close to four in the morning, and he hadn't slept properly in two days. Guilt was eating away at him.

He itched to call his lover. Hear his accented voice, and ask him to come back to him. To forgive him for what he had done and said, for what he had accused him of in the heat of the moment. He wanted to be back in Francis' arms, warm and secure. He wanted to feel his lips against his own. Against his jaw, and his neck, anywhere they could reach like they did while he was trying to fall asleep.

Arthur was completely alone, and he was scared it was going to stay this way. He wanted to fix the wrongs he had done. Would Francis even listen to him if he called? He doubted it. The Frenchman could be so stubborn, and stay angry for a long time. Arthur was sure he wouldn't hear a word he had to say. He wished though. He didn't want to live in a country where he had no one.

Canada was a lonely place from him. He had come over on an exchange for school in University, not knowing anyone or having a place to stay, save the ratty apartment they provided him with. He could remember the stench of drugs and the stale air in the building. He had only spent a few days there, however. He had met Francis at a bar, as cliche was it was, and the two had come to an agreement almost immediately that Arthur could spend the remainder of his stay in his nicer apartment.

At the time, Francis was graduated from college, doing well at his work, and had enough money to support himself and others if he son chose. He was living a good life for a man of twenty-eight. Arthur, who was only twenty-one at the time, wasn't going to deny the offers he made.

He had felt safe with him. Francis taught him the way things were different in Canada then they were over in Europe, having lived in France until he was eighteen, and he helped him with his work at the university as well. Arthur had taken an English major, hoping to become a teacher, or professor of some sort. The Frenchman had poked a little fun at him, but helped him none the less. When he would go away on business trips he would call, and make sure that everything was alright at 'home', as he called it. Arthur wasn't sure why it had always warmed his heart, but it had. He suspected it was because 'home' had always been reserved for a place where he felt completely comfortable, while a mere dwelling was a 'house' to him. He didn't imagine Francis shared the same belief.

That aside, Arthur really found it to be no wonder how quickly he fell in love with Francis Bonnefoy. He fell in love with his annoying habit to ridicule his cooking, and leave his laundry all over the house. The way he smoked in the living room after dinner without so much as opening a window. Arthur loved the way Francis would pull his long blonde hair back into a pony tail at the nape of his neck, and push his glasses up his nose every few seconds while he was trying to do paper work. Everything about him had captivated Arthur, and he loved even his flaws.

Why hadn't he been able to hold back his temper a few days ago during their argument? He wanted to remind Francis of how happy they had been before. When they spent time together. At dinner, after work, before going to bed. Everything they did together, he wanted Francis to remember. He wanted Francis to know how sorry he was, and that he took his accusations back.

Arthur knew he shouldn't have said any of it. He should have taken a deep breath, a step back. He shouldn't have slapped him, and he shouldn't have yelled.

He should have stopped him from leaving, and he understood that now that he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Hetalia or ****_"You Could be Happy" _****by the Snow Patrol**

_You Could be Happy, Part III_

"_You could be happy, I hope you are. You made me happier than I'd been by far. Somehow everything I own smells of you, and for the tiniest moment it's all not true."_

Francis Bonnefoy gazed out the window over the city. He didn't necessarily mind living in town, it wasn't that big of a deal. But it wasn't the calm community he had lived in before with Arthur. The people on the streets yelled, and car tires squealed against the pavement. It gave him a headache. He took a long drag off of his cigarette, before exhaling softly, and watching it float away into the night lit sky.

_'Arthur,'_ he thought wistfully. He would admit, after living at Antonio's apartment for a couple weeks, he really missed life with his lover back at their home. He tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette before putting it out on the window sill and leaving it there. He walked back to the couch where he had been sleeping, and laid down, closing his eyes.

He felt lost without the Brit, to be honest. He had grown so accustomed to having his presence, he had forgotten what it was like without him. Even getting up and going to work seemed like a chore without his lover snuggled next to him in their bed.

When Francis had first stumbled upon Arthur, he had been enchanted. He wanted to get to know him desperately, and was going to do so at any means possible. He went directly over to him, noticing he looked completely alone and somewhat somber on that evening. They had started talking, and Francis grew attached immediately. He knew he wasn't going to let Arthur go no matter what. He needed him more than anything else before.

The Frenchman had lived a fairly lonely life. His parents had neglected him something horrible when he was growing up. He smoked his first cigarette when he was fourteen, and had his first drink when he was fifteen. He had slept around during high school, and earned himself a reputation he didn't want to carry for the rest of his life. He moved to Canada, catching a midnight flight out of France with only a note explaining to his parents where he had gone. He had one bag with clothes and a few belongings, and one-hundred-forty Canadian dollars. He immediately wanted to find work, and started as an intern at a high end business, having a basic knowledge after reading his father's books. He didn't have friends, and he didn't have a nice apartment. He lived in a hell hole, alone.

He climbed up to the top of the business slowly. With no college education, and barely anything to his name, he became vice president of the company after years of work. It was something that was only supposed to happen in movies, or fairy tales, but it had sure enough happened to Francis. Along the way he had managed to make two very good friends, Gilbert and Antonio of course, who helped him along the way.

He moved out of the little apartment into a loft, bought himself a car, and started _living. _Sure he went out a lot in the past, and perhaps drank a little too much, but it was just how he learned to survive when he was younger.

Arthur had changed a lot of that in his life. He no longer felt the need for partying, or finding comfort and solace in the bottle. He made him feel so much better, and optimistic about life than he had ever before. He was literately his saving grace, Francis was sure of that. The three years they had spent together meant the world to Francis.

That's why this fight was killing him. As he laid on the couch, he tried to build up his nerve to call Arthur. It had to be done, and he needed to hear his voice right in that moment. Would Arthur even answer him, though? He had stormed out and left him alone. That wasn't exactly the best thing he had ever done.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

Francis jolted upright at the sound of his cellphone, snapping him out of his thoughts entirely. He snatched it off the table and read the number he had memorized years ago with greedy eyes. His heart jumped out of his chest as he answered the phone, "Hello?" He asked.

"Francis?" Arthur's voice filled his eyes and he instantly felt a smile coat his lips. How he had missed that British accent of his. "I... I was going to call earlier, but I never had the chance," he said quietly.

"That's okay," Francis lied, wishing that he had called him the night he had walked out. He needed to be back in their house together, with Arthur and everything back to normal.

"Yeah... I was just wondering if you wanted to come by and pick up the rest of your things," he said sadly. Francis frowned, missing the tone. So Arthur hadn't forgiven him. That was definitely not what he had wanted to hear. His heart sank in his chest, and his brows pulled together.

"Oh... ah, oui. I'll come and get them tomorrow?" Francis asked more than said into the phone. No, he wanted to go and _stay. _He didn't want to take his belongings with him. He heard Arthur breath a sigh on the other side of the line before he spoke.

"Grand, I'll see you then," he said before hanging up before Francis had a chance to say anything else. He held the phone to his ear until the line went dead, and slipped it shut, setting it back on the coffee table. He rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. How had he managed to fuck everything up so much? He buried his face in his pillow that he had brought with him, and smiled at the fact it still smelled like his ex-lover. How long would it smell like that? He hoped forever.

Soon Antonio returned home, and the Frenchman had to pull himself together. Tomorrow he would to to Arthur's house, get his things, and be done with this whole ordeal. He would be able to move on.

That was a lie, and Francis Bonnefoy knew it.


	4. Chapter 4

**I do not own Hetalia or **_**"You Could be Happy"**_** by the Snow Patrol.**

_You Could be Happy, Part IV_

"_Do the things that you always wanted to without me there to hold you back. Don't think, just do. More than anything I want to see you, boy. Take a glorious bite out of the whole world."_

Arthur took a nervous sip of his tea, and paced around the living room, glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time. He was nervous to see Francis. He wanted to convince him to stay, but he seemed more than willing to get his belongings and be done with the Brit. Arthur didn't want to humiliate himself anymore than he already had.

At the familiar sound of Francis' car rolling up into the drive way, Arthur nearly panicked. He instantly went to sit down so it didn't look like he had been anxiously waiting for him, which he most certainly had been. He didn't want to look like a stalker, either. He had expected Francis to ring the door bell, or knock, but to his surprise he listened to the door being unlocked like he had hundreds of times when Francis returned home from work. The Frenchman emerged a second later, and slipped his shoes off, peeking into the living room.

"Bonjour," he said, offering Arthur a small smile. The Brit set his tea cup down, and got up.

"Hello," he said briskly. He wasn't sure how this encounter was going to go, therefore he was very nervous. Francis masked a frown at his tone, but it was still present in his eyes; there was nothing he could do about that. He wanted nothing more in that moment then to take Arthur back into his arms, apologize for leaving and beg him to let him stay. He didn't want to sleep alone one more night. He shook the thoughts out of his head and sighed.

"Well, I guess I'll go and get my things," he told him dejectedly. Arthur stared at him numbly before standing up.

"Ah, yeah. I'll help you get it all together, hm?" The Brit fidgeted with his hands linked together nervously, taking a step towards the Frenchman. Francis nodded and walked towards their... no, Arthur's bedroom and opened up the closet, getting out a large box. He started putting items into it, while Arthur merely stood in the doorway, frowning gently.

"So, what have you been doing lately?" Francis asked. He glanced over at Arthur and assessed him quietly. It was obvious to him that he had lost weight. He was smaller and more frail looking. He looked far too tired for anyone to be healthy. He wondered if it was his fault, then he realized that was a stupid question. Of course it was his fault.

"I've been writing, actually," Arthur said. He had always wanted to become an author, and now that he had so much spare time, he had been able to get some of his ideas down and written out. He was quite proud of them so far. Francis nodded and smiled sadly.

"That's good, you always did love writing, oui?" He asked, folding a pair of pants before setting them into the bottom of the box. He let his eyes linger there, not willing to look at Arthur as he moved his belongings into the box.

"Yeah," Arthur said simply, "It's been going quite well," _'It's depressing as hell, however,'_ he thought to himself with a frown. It wasn't an easy thing to write, as he was nearly pouring his heart and complete self into that novel. He was sure it would turn out well in the end though. All of this pain had to profit someway.

The two men went about the house in silence, gathering Francis' belongings together. Arthur had shamefully stashed away a shirt or two of his. He had to at least have some sort of positive reminder of him, and his scent was definitely the ticket he had needed. Francis looked around the house woefully, and sighed. "I guess that's everything," he said sadly. He didn't want to leave, because he knew as soon as he stepped out of that door he would have no excuse to see Arthur again. That would be the end of them.

Arthur nodded softly, "I guess so," he agreed. He looked around the hall they were standing in, and then rested his eyes on Francis. Both of them knew that this was wrong, so why were they still going through with this? Francis tried to smile softly, but it almost ended up looking like a grimace.

"Take care, mon cher," he said quietly, pressing his lips to Arthur's forehead before he picked up the last box and walked out to his car. Arthur walked to the door and watched him go like he did weeks ago when they had first split up. He wanted to scream at him to come back, he wanted to cry, and beg him not to leave. But his voice wasn't there anymore. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and offered Francis a weak smile in return as he climbed into the car, and carefully pulled out of the drive way. Arthur stepped out onto the porch, and watched him drive until he was out of sight. He reached up and brushed the tears off of his cheeks, willing the rest to stay back. He stood there numbly, before turning and walking back into the cold, unwelcoming house once more. He didn't want to stay here alone, but he knew now that he had no option. Alfred had been calling and calling, trying to apologize for everything that had happened because of their night together, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to answer. It just made it all the more real.

He didn't want to come to terms with the fact his lover was gone now. He walked over to his desk chair and turned on the monitor of his computer, listening to it hum quietly as it warmed up.

Then, he began to write.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur walked down the clustered streets of London, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. Winter had always been his least favourite season, it was far too cold and lonely for his liking. He preferred Spring or Fall over it. Summer was too hot.

He pushed those thoughts out of his head with ease, rather focusing on where he was going. He honestly had no idea where he was headed – his feet were just leading him absently through the streets. The Brit didn't necessarily mind, as this had almost become a habit in the past year or two. He liked to explore the streets, small notebook tucked in his pocket for instances where inspiration would strike.

His emerald eyes wandered over to a shop window in curiosity, taking in the glossy cover of books that lined the display. He smiled slightly upon seeing the tile, followed by his own name.

Once he had finished writing his novel, he sent it to a publisher on a whim, curious to see if it was as good as he thought it was. After a few emails and phone calls shot back and forth, he had a publishing deal with ease – they knew it was going to be a success almost instantly. Arthur was obviously proud, and stopped in front of the window for a moment. He preferred being an authour over an other career in the entertainments. This way he could still walk through the streets without being hassled too much. It was only once in a blue moon someone actually recognized and approached him, asking for an autograph or something.

People didn't tend to memorize authour's faces.

He looked away from the books and continued on his way down the street, trying not to let his thoughts stray too much as to what event had caused him to write the successful novel. He found himself thinking of Francis more than he should lately. He blamed it on the lonely feeling of winter, but he knew it must be something more. He wondered what the man was doing, where he was. Had he left Canada? Returned to France, perhaps. That would make sense; there wasn't much holding him here save a few friends, and previously Arthur.

Arthur had moved to England either way, so he supposed it didn't matter.

The thought saddened him. If Francis had returned to the neighbouring country, there was a good chance he would never see him again. He didn't want to think of that at all. He had messed up, and many times he had been tempted to call the man, requesting they talk it out, perhaps resolve their issues. He knew that there was no point though. Arthur had been the one at fault, not Francis. He shouldn't have lost his temper like that, hit him.

He shook his head gently as he walked down the cobble stone street, looking up at the sky momentarily. It was clouded, and he was sure it was about to snow even worse that it currently was. The small white flakes fell from the sky steadily, falling on top of what had already coated the ground. He sighed. He couldn't help but be a little pleased, at least. It would be a white Christmas in England for sure. Other parts of the country were worse off, after all. He considered himself lucky.

It wasn't until he bumped into someone a little less gracefully than usual, he turned his gaze back straight ahead of him as he quickly murmured a quick apology. He furrowed a brow at the familiar scent that filled his nose, however. He turned his gaze up slightly, openly gawking at the man in front of him. He certainly hadn't been expecting him, of all people.

"Francis?" he asked, as if to make sure that he really was in front of him. The Frenchman's lips turned up into a smile quickly, and he took a step back to look at the Brit, resting a hand on his arm where he had caught him earlier. Not much was different about Francis – his hair was still long, falling freely around his face. A black coat was buttoned up neatly, and Arthur had to grin at how British the man looked in that moment.

"Allo, Arthur," he said, finally dropping his hand from the man as he too finished his inspections for any physical changes in the Brit, "I would, ah, ask 'ow you've been, but I suppose everything in the news and reviews speaks for you. You're quite successful, oui?" he asked with a gently smile. Arthur nodded slightly, smiling back at the man.

"I guess you could say that," he nodded. He had been on quite a few talk shoes, discussing the novel and possible additions to the series. He had always avoided the inspiration for it neatly though, claiming it was unimportant to the book, and had barely any relevance. "The life of an authour is a boring one, though. How have you been?" he asked after a moment, pushing his thoughts out of his head.

He realized just how much he had missed Francis. He missed his touch, the way he smelt, his hair and his eyes. The way he bustled about the kitchen, trying to make dinner for them nearly every night. He missed the quiet sweet nothings the man would tell him in French before they fell asleep. He missed the little things, that no one besides Francis would ever be able to offer him.

"I've been keeping busy," Francis shrugged, snapping him out of his thoughts again, "I got a job transfer, so I've just been taking in London mostly. A big change from Canada," he said. Arthur smiled slightly, knowing how much Francis had always desired to work with food and people. He was definitely a people person.

"I'm glad," Arthur nodded, "It's a perfect job for you. You're a great cook, after all," he said, trying to keep his internal musings to himself. He didn't want to scare the Frenchman off. After years of being without him, he had just encountered him on accident. This was too good for him to pass up for sure. He would be damned if he managed to screw it up.

Francis nodded his head, smiling wider, "Oui, I truly do enjoy it. For once I don't mind getting up in the morning to go to work. It's nice," he said, shifting his weight onto his other foot. His gloved hands slipped into his coat pocket, and Arthur nodded his head as well, absorbing the presence of the Frenchman completely. The two stood in silence on the street as people moved about around them, before Francis spoke again.

"You know, it's fairly cold out here. Would you like to go get something to eat?" he asked hopefully, glancing around them quickly, "I know a nice cafe not far from here if you're not busy," he continued, letting his eyes rest on Arthur again. The Brit smiled slightly, nodding his head.

"I'd love to."

-Fin.-

**Edit: January 19th, 2013 - Thanks for the Guest reviewer for pointing out my blunder to me. It's been fixed now!**


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